


sleepless

by sazzla (livid)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Panic Attacks, Suicidal Ideation, post FFC, pre DWD, silly drabble, spoilers i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 11:26:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livid/pseuds/sazzla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kissed twice, Jon thought, and hardly lucky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sleepless

It was a crushing sickness that woke him most nights, and a half-mad terror that she was in the room. A flash of red in the darkness, and a shake that lingered for hours.

The sleeping never came easy, and when it fled him it never came back. The warmth of Ghost’s body beside him was a comfort, but hardly enough.

Some nights he rose and tried to read, carried on with duties, or prowled the yards like some starved dog, watching and watched warily by Stannis’ men, but more often than not he couldn’t bring himself to shake off the furs at all. She followed him, either way. She and Robb both, their voices whispering to him from the shadows. Them and the bloody raven.

He was glad he burnt her body. He was glad, but it had been an agony. He had retched at the smell, unable to believe the desire that roiled in him, the watering in his mouth. That had been a betrayal, he knew, and cursed his body for the thousandth time. His body had a habit of betraying him, but none had ever been half so bad as that.

Or the thought that lingered, nebulous and unspoken in his head. There were no words for it, just a deep and ghastly ache, buried in his chest beside the others.

He had kept a small token, and though the sight of it always made him sick, he couldn’t bear to throw it away. A ringlet.

_Lucky._

_Kissed by fire._

Kissed twice, he thought, and hardly lucky.

There was a scar on his shoulder, a shadow beneath the skin. The line of her teeth. He touched it sometimes, when he was dressing, and the memory would choke him. She had been a wily lover, wild in that as in most other things. The hunger was in him still, and sometimes his mind would wander to the curve of her buttocks or the sweetness of her kisses and he would find his skin burning, desperate, but his hardness always left him quickly, replaced by a sense of futility and a queer humiliation.

If only she could see him shaking.

The whispers were thicker some nights than others, his father’s voice joining the sordid chorus, and sometimes Lady Catelyn too. “It should have been you,” she hissed, and mostly he was inclined to agree.


End file.
